Perfect Intentions: Sometimes justice is above the law (4 page)

When the news of the second body came through to the station, Holt hadn’t been surprised. Judging by what he had seen at the first crime scene, their perpetrator was organised and meticulous. Having both the bodies discovered within hours of each other showed a level of control that was making Holt uncomfortable, and he knew he would need to bring in outside help. The victim’s heavily pregnant girlfriend had discovered the body. She’d had to be taken straight to hospital after the shock had brought her labour on. Luckily she’d gone on to have a healthy baby boy; unfortunately, it would also mean that one day she’d have to explain to her son the demise of his father and the fact that his birthday fell on the same date. Already the reach of these crimes was moving into the next generation. There hadn’t been a murder in the town in over thirty years, and the last one had been a mugging that had gotten out of hand. These crimes weren’t opportunistic.

For the first time in his career, DI Holt was scared. He had no idea how to deal with the nightmare unfurling before him. Now that he had made the decision to go and see this Loretta Armstrong he felt a little calmer, despite the knowledge that she had been instrumental to his own divorce. He thought about the first time he’d heard her name; it had been shortly before his wife had finally walked out on him. His wife Helen; had been going to see Loretta to talk through some ‘personal issues’ she’d been having at the time. As it had turned out these ‘personal issues’ had been that she’d had enough of her marriage. Holt let out a derisory snort as he cast his mind back to the final conversation he’d had with his then wife. She’d had the affront to accuse him of being ‘emotionally retarded’. When she’d said it to him he’d laughed in her face, before reminding her it had been she who had sought out the advice of a perfect stranger to discuss the intricacies of their marriage. With her doctorate, she could—and probably would—make him feel very nervous. But he knew he’d need a head start on this case, and maybe she could shed some light on the type of person they were looking for. And going by what he’d witnessed in the last twenty-four hours, it wasn’t a rational mind he was looking for. He leant forward, cradling his head in his hands, and attempted to rub the sleep away from his eyes and force his mind to wake again. He stared back down at the photos in front of him. He just hoped
Dr. Armstrong was as good as her reputation suggested, because he had a feeling he was going to need all the additional help he could get.

Grabbing his jacket from the back of his chair, he called for DS Henson, and the two men headed for the car park.

Holt pulled the car into the car park outside
Dr. Armstrong’s office and the two men got out. Harry Henson was practically giddy. His first
real
murder case, and he had not just one, but two mutilated bodies.

Not so much bullied as
ignored by fellow classmates growing up, his choice of job ensured that people would take him seriously, and, more importantly, would get him noticed.  Whereas most of his peers were respected within the community, Henson had systematically put everyone’s back up. Holt had only agreed to bringing Henson in on the case due to Henson’s persistent nagging. He had an almost desperate need to be constantly reassured and patted on the head, which made him nauseating in the extreme. That, coupled with the fact that he would stitch any one up in an effort to make himself look better, ensured that no one else would work with him.

Harry had subscribed to the idea a long time ago that to appear better to others, the quickest and often simplest route was to make everyone else look worse by comparison.

This case was a defining moment in his career. At the age of thirty he was still young, and here he was, accompanying DI Holt on what was potentially the biggest murder case in recent history.

Detective Inspector Jimmy Holt was the antithesis of Harry; he was a slightly rotund man with greying hair and a ruddy face. He had the look of a weatherworn man, and was well liked at his station. He had also been blessed with the patience of a saint and, as such, had been prepared to bring the young DC Henson in on this case with him. Painfully aware of how much the other officers disliked the young lad, he had seen fit to try and let him prove himself to his peers. He had not foreseen how trying that might be on a potentially long case. He had hoped the brutality of the murders might have sobered the young DC to the horrors that policing could hold, but unfortunately it had just seemed to fan the flames. So now, just forty-eight hours into the investigation, the DI was seriously starting to regret his decision to bring him in on the case. He was practically preening himself for the cameras; a few of his officers had already been snickering about how his face seemed to be getting more tanned by the day.

Pulling himself from his thoughts, the DI stopped to look at the front of the building. He didn’t agree with the idea of criminal profiling; he didn’t understand it. When he had started his career been he had been taught to find the clues and piece the puzzle together as simply as possible.    

Now, though, the police force required an in depth analysis of who it was they were looking for. How these people were supposed to know that he had no idea; he could never know someone until he had met them, and yet these people claimed to be able to read the psyche of someone they had probably never seen before in their lives.

But for all the DI’s gruff exterior and disbelief, psychiatrists and counsellors made him nervous. For the most part he was a private man, kept himself to himself, and that suited him just fine. The idea of someone poking round inside his head unsettled him more than he cared to mention.

He read the sign on the door: ‘
Dr. Loretta Armstrong, PHD,’ and exhaled loudly, turning to see if Henson was still with him, he was.

Walking through the reception area to the front desk, DI Holt was happy to see that it looked relatively normal, relaxed even. The walls were a pale sage colour; there were lots of large leafy plants around, and a small child’s play area. The child area troubled him briefly, as he wondered why a child might need to see a psychiatrist, but he dismissed it as a sign of the times. He felt that children today as a whole were over sensitized and under disciplined. The parents couldn’t control them anymore, as any physical disciplining could resort in a court case, and so the first taste of discipline a lot of kids would encounter would be at the hands of him or one of his officers.

He thought back to when he was growing up; societies young had always created groups. Little niches where they were free to express their individuality by dressing the same and appreciating the same core ideals. The vast percentage of children these days were born with silver spoons in their mouths, and, God help him, sometimes he wished they’d fall flat on their faces and choke on the damn thing.

As DI Holt approached the office door of
Dr. Armstrong, he took a deep breath. He needed to remain calm; the last thing he needed was this woman knowing he felt nervous in her presence. Motioning for DC Henson to follow him, he knocked on the door.

Within her office Loretta was busy tidying her desk, it was an unconscious behaviour brought about by how nervous she was now feeling. She’d never seen a detective before, at least not in this sense. What if he wanted information on her patients? She knew realistically he couldn’t—and probably wouldn’t—ask. A sharp knock on the door signalled his arrival.

“Come in.” 

As if on cue, the door opened and DI Holt strode in, closely followed by that bumbling idiot of a DC she’d seen on the evening news the previous night. Resembling the colour of a tangerine, he’d spoken at length about nothing that seemed of any real significance, and he was even so bold as to make a suggestion as to the sort of man they were looking for. That was the problem these days—everyone was an amateur psychologist. What was his name, anyway? As if answering her thoughts, DI Holt spoke.

“Dr. Armstrong, I’m DI Holt, and this is DC Henson. Thank you for seeing us on such short notice. I appreciate that you must be busy.”

“No problem, officers, anything I can do to help you with this case that’s within my power I will do.”

“Well, we’d certainly appreciate that. Oh, and just to let you know, we’re here off the record.”

“Off the record? How do you mean?”

“Well, the only people who know we’re consulting you are the three of us in the confines of these four walls, and maybe your receptionist. We’d appreciate it if you’d let her know the situation and instruct her to keep the information to herself.”

“Well, consider it done. Michelle is not at liberty to discuss anyone who comes into my office. But may I ask why all the secrecy?”

“Well, a number of reasons, really. As you’ve probably seen, the murders have generated a lot of media attention recently, but we’re trying to keep the cases as closed as possible, and for two reasons.  Firstly, we don’t want the severity of the situation getting out to Joe Public. And secondly, we
do not
want tomorrow’s front-page headline to read ‘Clueless’ above a photo DC Henson and myself. So let me tell you what we know for sure: we have two brutally disfigured bodies, no real motives, no witnesses, and not even a realistic list of prospective suspects.”

“So let me get this straight, Detective Inspector Holt, is it?” Holt nodded his confirmation and gestured for her to continue.

“You have no motives for these crimes? None whatsoever?”

Holt looking suitably embarrassed and avoided direct eye contact, nodding his affirmative once more.

“Are the two murders linked?”

“Well, the methods used are not even remotely similar; however, there are certain circumstantial similarities.”

“Go on.”

“Well, there’s the fact that the last murder to happen in Manning’s Town was over thirty years ago. And both of these victims were very brutally murdered—not just killed, but maimed. Also, both crime scenes were ‘clean.’”

“Clean?”

“Yes, no prints, no hair, nothing to go on, and also both murders took place within forty-eight hours, so an awful lot of planning would have had to have gone into it.”

“Any similarities between the victims?”

“Matt Reynolds, the second victim, was in his early thirties, white male. As for the first victim, all we know so far was that he was white male, possibly older than Matt; we’re pretty sure he wasn’t local, though.”

“What makes you say that?”

“No one’s been reported missing. We don’t even have an ID on him yet.’

“Interesting.”

“What? What’s interesting?”

“Well, your killer’s age and gender specification is within the range that most serial killers are in when they have their killing spree.”

“Serial killer? You think this is the work of a serial killer?” Holt was shocked. It wasn’t a term he’d even considered in connection with the case; the term ‘serial killer’ didn’t belong in his little town. The subject of many books and films, it certainly didn’t fit here in his small town.

“Yes, don’t you?”

“Well, I hadn’t really considered it”

“As you said, Detective, there hasn’t been a murder here in over thirty years. And I imagine it wasn’t anything as elaborate as the recent murders.”

“True, true.” Holt was lost in thought. A serial killer; he’d never had to consider such a prospect in all his years on the force, and now here he was, in the winter of his career having to contemplate facing a possible serial killer.

If he’d been worried about coming to see Dr. Armstrong, it wasn’t anything compared to what he was feeling now.

“Inspector?’”

Holt broke from his thoughts.

“Are you sure we’re looking for a serial killer?”

“I can’t be
sure
of anything, but you shouldn’t dismiss the idea just because you’re uncomfortable with it, impending retirement or not.”

Holt stood stock-still. This woman had just read his mind. He was shocked, but for the most part, he was angry. How dare this woman question his ability to do his job
properly.

“With all due respect,
Dr. Armstrong, whatever I may or may not feel about these two murders has absolutely nothing to do with my impending retirement, or, for that matter, anything to do with you.”

“I’m sorry if I offended you just now, but I really don’t see how I can help you.”

“You really can’t see how you can help us?” Henson’s voice was incredulous.

“We have two bodies show up within forty-eight hours, one hideously burnt, the other with so many cuts and drill holes he could have been a stand in for a Black and Decker work mate, and you honestly can’t see how you could be of use to us?” Henson was warming to his theme.

“You have the low down and inside track on every nut and loony in the area—you could point us in the direction of some probable suspects. There’s a lunatic on the loose somewhere out there, Dr. Armstrong. Do you want to be the next victim tonight as you’re walking to your car?”

“I don’t appreciate your tone, DC Henson.”

“I’m just saying what everyone else is thinking: anyone could be next—you, me, the inspector.”

“So you’re asking me to break the doctor patient confidentiality oath? You’d happily send my career into the gutter while advancing your own?”